


Bleak Victory

by Fuzzy Blue Slippers (Fuzzy_Blue_Slippers)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:21:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6727537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuzzy_Blue_Slippers/pseuds/Fuzzy%20Blue%20Slippers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Months after Faendal's disappearance with the Dragonborn, Sven is startled when an inheritance letter arrives, addressed to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleak Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This' my first time posting here, so I'm pretty sure I undertagged this :p

The last time Sven saw Faendal was three months ago.

A newcomer had come stumbling in, asked too many questions and even tried stealing his job at the mill before hightailing it out of town. The one good thing they had done was drag that insufferable elf with them. Good riddance to them both.

With Faendal out of the way, Camilla Valerius was his for the taking. Courting her at his own pace was laughably easy, so easy in fact that she was eating out of the palm of his hand within a few weeks. His tips from singing at the inn provided him with the funds to barter an Amulet of Mara off a passing priest, though he kept it in a chest stuffed under his bed.

The time wasn’t right. And besides, he needed to save up for the trip to Riften, so that as soon as she saw him wearing it, they wouldn’t waste any time paying for a carriage. Or, if by chance that Bosmer riff-raff were to return to town, he would flaunt the Amulet in his face and ask for her hand in perfect view, showing that he had won the object of their affections while he was off adventuring. Either way was fine with him, really.

But then the courier showed up, and everything changed.

oOo

When the door to the Sleeping Giant Inn creaked open, Sven didn’t pay it any mind.

His full attention was on restringing his lute so he could finish wooing a few wealthy noblewomen out of their septims. They had coyly told him that they were on their way to visit the Jarl in Whiterun and were seeking entertainment while their carriage was being repaired. Apparently, a raid of bandits had descended upon them in the middle of the night, but more than likely they had embellished the story.

Being a bard, he could just tell when someone was trying to craft a bigger picture out of nothing.

All the same, to ‘ease their fright’ he had settled into playing a few romantic pieces, until one of the strings had unexpectedly snapped. Embry had heartily laughed at the bewildered look upon his face while up by the bar Orgnar shot him a look of pity. Luckily for him, the women were charmed enough by his skill to allow him a moment to regain his bearings.

It wasn’t often that any of his strings broke, especially not in front of patrons, and especially not days after he oiled them. It was odd…

“I’m looking for someone named… Sven.”

The bard peeked up from tying the end of the new string to a peg, and immediately laid eyes on a road-weary courier. He was sitting at the bar and rifling through his shoulder bag, mumbling to himself as he searched. While Orgnar prepared him a stiff drink, Delphine nodded towards the back corner, her steel eyes making him shudder.

She was a hard woman who made it a point to remind him that working at the mill was just as important as singing a song for strangers. It was any wonder of his why she even allowed him to pop in for hours at a time, but he wasn’t about to question her anytime soon.

The courier looked about at him and offered a sad smile. Try as he might, it made Sven a bit weary. Couriers were always so chipper, despite the dangers of their job and the low pay. For one to look at him like that brought about an uneasy feeling in his gut; he looked away, hoping the noblewomen didn’t notice the shadow crossing his brow.

He had to remain confident, and as he finished repairing his lute, proudly held it up to warm applause.

“Alright ladies, what would you like to hear?”

Immediately, the nearest one rang out, “Ragnar the Red!”

“Oh, yes, please! Ragnar the Red!”

A raised eyebrow met her request and the eager agreement of her friends. Were they over their scare already? Well, who was he to judge? The more he pleased them, the bigger his wallet would become, and the sooner he’d be able to marry the woman of his dreams.

“A fine choice,” he praised them, earning fluttered lashes and pink cheeks. “And you’re in luck. It’s one of my favorites, too.” He cleared his throat, set his fingers to the right position, and launched into the song.

To his further astonishment, the noblewomen joined him, their circleted heads bobbing along in enjoyment. Their voices weren’t as refined as his own, but their enthusiasm procured a smile from him. It was certainly a story to tell Camilla when he next saw her.

The tune ended on a high note, and by then even Embry had decided to insert his own scratchy voice, though his true intention was made known when he tried coaxing one of the maidens to talk to him. By the looks of things, he’d be walking away with a reddened cheek. It wasn’t anything he didn’t deserve.

Sven looked past them to see if the courier was still around, and he was, slowly nursing his drink. Whatever message he had wasn’t very important, it seemed like. Well that was fine by him. The less interruptions to his daily routine, the better.

Blocking out the hunched back, the bard continued to entertain his guests.

A good hour passed before the carriage driver waltzed inside the inn and found his passengers halfway drunk on Nord Mead, clinging to each other and praising Riverwood for its generous hospitality and fine young men (who so happened to have smeared lipstick across his cheek). He didn’t look too surprised by the behavior, as though they had done it countless times before. He thanked Sven, even, for keeping them occupied and out of trouble, and on top of the tips he had collected, found himself tying a hefty bag of coins to his belt.

If his suspicions were correct, his earnings were just enough to get them a ride to Riften. He couldn’t wait to finally approach his love with the Amulet around his neck and see the happiness spread beautifully upon her face…

“Are you Sven?”

The bard snapped out of his daydream. The main room was mostly empty now without the cheerful maidens, leaving just the regulars and the courier, who was now staring at him expectantly.

“Yes,” he answered slowly.

“Oh, good. I have a letter for you.” He paused before handing it over, as though knowing that the news he was about to deliver would dampen the bard’s entire evening. He had listened to the revelry, and as though to apologize, offered Sven in a small whisper, “I didn’t want to give you this with so many people around.”

A ball of apprehension formed in the pit of Sven’s gut. He could barely find his tongue, despite the fact that he had been happily wagging it in song. “What is it?” he asked in a croak, his eyes seeking any answer that they could find.

Without offering a detailed response, the disheartened letter bearer handed over a sealed envelope, and with it, an attachment of gold.

His stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the courier said in the same soft tone before leaving.

His loss…

Numbly, Sven stumbled to one of the chairs and heavily sat. It was still warm from the body that had been occupying it not that long ago, but he barely paid it any mind. He had eyes only for the grungy item in his hand; a bumbling oaf could have easily walked up to him and stolen the coins off his belt without him so much as flinching.

Too many thoughts were jumping in his mind. Who, what, where, when? How? The last time he checked, his mother was still yammering about black dragons and the end of the world. Camilla, sweet Camilla was always under his watchful eye; nothing slipped by his gaze to get to her. Lucan? No, the man hardly ever left that shop of his, especially not after losing and regaining that rare golden claw.

Then who else?

He could feel the casual gazes of the scant number of patrons, waiting on him to open the letter and react to the contents. Except he didn’t want to open the letter. What if it was a mistake? It had to be one. All his loved ones were within sight, alive and well. Could it have been an obscure relative, maybe? Or a secret admirer? The idea comforted him. It wasn’t anyone he knew personally. That was silly.

Tension rolled off his back, allowing him to sit up straighter. Using the steel dagger his father had given him when he was a child, Sven easily cut through the twine and broke the haphazard seal. His brow furrowed when he eased out two slips of parchment, until he realized with a started jolt just what he was staring at.

Blood, it was splattered with old dried blood. It was as though the writer had cut themselves trying to pen him this note, hastily and without a formal greeting. It was nearly ineligible, prompting him to reach for a nearby candle for better viewing. Normally, the letter would be written on pristine paper and with the steady hand of a Jarl’s steward. This was not official. Was it even real?

Curiosity won out on whether he should toss it or not. Someone obviously wanted his attention, and they got it. Minutes passed with the bard steadily deciphering the scribble and blotchy fingerprints. Real or not, it made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end.

_Sven, I don’t have much time to explain what’s going on, but it’s imperative that you read this note: Faendal is dying. At the time I am penning this, he’s bleeding out on the floor of a bandit’s den, drifting in and out of consciousness. He was adamant that you receive word, and a final goodbye. He thinks it’s funny that in his last moments he’s thinking of you and not that tart Camilla (my words, not his). He even wishes he got to hear you stumble through another song one last time._

_I know you two never got along, but he cares about you, in his own way. It was never my intention to keep him with me for so long, but raiding caves and climbing mountainsides really grew on him. And now I’ve killed him._

A tear drop marred the words, turning the deep red of the blood a washed out pink. Sven traced his thumb over it gently.

_He says he’s happy knowing that Camilla is in good hands, and that you two should get married right away. He’s also insisting I give you all his earnings, so you better use it well. He’s barely holding on now, his lips are moving but nothing’s coming out. Something about… keeping an eye on you. I said that I promised I would, but no, that’s not what he meant. I think the old goat believes that’s his job. Huh, he’d rather haunt your steps than go to the afterlife. Do Bosmer even believe in the afterlife?_

_He’s fading._

More tears, splattered like fine crystals framed the last words, unstable and etched with grief.

_Gods, no… Sven, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry._

And that was it.

No post-script, no signature.

Stunned wasn’t the proper word to describe Sven at that moment. His blue eyes were glazed over and his heart was slightly quick in his chest, meting out a beat that would have produced sorrow in the most cynical.

Faendal?  _Dead?_

No. Not possible.

The archer might have been clumsy when it came to flattering a girl, but in combat, he could definitely take care of himself. Yet bandits fought dirty, and so many things could have gone wrong. A set off trap, an ambush from an inconspicuous corner, overwhelming numbers.

This companion of his, the one who jotted down his last moments… she had to be the Breton who convinced him to go. Why wasn’t she there to watch his back? Protecting each other should’ve been priority number one. How could she have failed him?

But she was right.

She had killed him with their very first ‘hello’.

Unbidden resentment washed over Sven. His hands shook about the letter and his eyes turned hard, startling those who had been hawking on his reactions. He and Faendal had never gotten along, that was true. There had been many times where he wished for the elf to stay out of his business for good, years spent hating him, but now that he was gone forever, it all felt so wrong.

He thought back to every argument they had, whether it was about Camilla or the mill, and how easily riled the Bosmer could get. It was nothing short of a game for the both of them, their only prizes a feisty Imperial woman and a surcharge of pride. It was childish, but it was routine—their routine.

And now… what was he to do now? Be happy? He had Camilla, he had his voice, his skill, but why was he feeling so hollow? The death of one person shouldn’t make him feel as though the world just got a little bit colder, but it did.

His eyes slid back to the paper and its acid words. It took him a moment too long to realize that he was touching the elf’s blood, the last memory print of his life. The Breton had probably tried to save him, slipping and sobbing and clumsily sealing off wounds with tatty bandages. Was it right for him to be mad at her? She had obviously tried and felt remorse for what had happened. She had been there, had stayed with him, had comforted him and been the very last face he would ever see.

Sven did not have that luxury.

The emptiness spread, and by the Nine… did it hurt.

 


End file.
